


Rose Society

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Roses, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had always loved roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose Society

**Author's Note:**

> I have a sinking feeling this prompt/idea has been written before, but I ignored it and wrote it anyway.

He smiled at me. "It'll be alright, Sherlock. Everything will be fine."

The way in which he looked at me now was serene and calming, his usual wandering eyes no longer curious, but still and hopeful. A bird crossed the window outside of our house, and its flash of dark against the golden of the summer sun may have been the only thing continuing on normally. My husband shook his head in a laugh, "You're going to have to say something eventually."

What could I say? That I'm not ready, that I doubt either of us are? I'd forgotten if I'd even blinked. My hands were gripping the wooden rim of the chair below me. My fingers were numb from the pressure, so I couldn't feel John's hand taking mine from his spot at the kitchen table. He spoke again, but I only caught the last bit of it. "…Harry won't be very happy about it."

"No, she won't." My throat was dry and my arms were limp, but somehow I was able to speak and lace my fingers under John's.

"Sit."

I obeyed. Moving through molasses, I eventually found myself seated at the kitchen table. John was still smiling peacefully at me, but the tranquil air of the house was more threatening than pleasing. Our dogs were outside, as were my bees, and their distinguished sounds of movement filtered in with the dusty July sun. 

"Sherlock," John said, squeezing my hand. "You'll get through this." 

"Will I?"

"Yes. The world will still turn, Blackie will still chew up the couch, your bees will still make honey, and the mailman will still mix up our letters. Life will go on."

"But I don't want it to, not like this."

"You're going to have to be stronger than that. Come on," he rose from the table, the soft maroon of his jumper brushing my knuckles as he moved by me, "It's not time yet, so let's make the best of it."

He weaved through the kitchen and towards the bedroom. My hands remained on the mahogany table, empty and cold. My energy seemed to be drained but my brain was on fire, and I struggled to sort through everything that shot through it as I called after him, "I don't feel like it."

"Then just sit next to me and read or something. Get in here, William." His voice floated through the hall, the remnants of a laugh on the vowels in my first name. I couldn't ignore the use of it, so I followed him into the bedroom, through the hall adorned with many pictures of us and our albeit, few friends.

I closed the door after me, the image of John sitting sweetly on our messy bed nearly dream-like. The corners of my mouth tugged upwards in a meek grin. He cocked a brow before laying himself down on his side and curled his knees in, expectant. I had to comply.

* * *

After the initial shock had passed, and a few more weeks had come and gone, I decided to be logical. John would've wanted me to, anyway. Years ago, he'd said that ever since we got together, my science-based persona and cold atmosphere had melted away over time. It was easy to let happen, really, when moving to Sussex and buying an isolated house to spend the rest of our days in. I wasn't necessarily retired, but the city life had proved too much for us after nearly a decade, and we decided to settle in somewhere calmer. He didn't take that as an excuse, though, and he said I'd become too much of a softie. This new me, he said, was different than the detective he'd fallen in love with. I'd asked him if he still loved me anyway, and he said he always would, even if he had to wake up every morning to the smell of cookies and lilacs. I knew he was joking - I'd never make cookies in the _morning._ Before I could add that bit though, he feigned deep thought and reconsidered. He'd said he blamed himself for the flowers, considering he'd never go a warm season without lilacs in the house.

He loved lilacs, really, but not as much as roses. Roses were John's favorites. Roses, to John, were like me… Or so he said. They were beautiful and popular and a symbol of love, but if one too hastily or roughly reached for it, they'd be pricked by the thorns. It was a tired cliche, but I loved it just the same. 

That's why I came up with my plan. I used to always have a plan, and now I knew this one had to be brilliant. I recruited Molly, Sally, and even Lestrade to help me. At first, they pitched in from London, sending references and placing orders. Every day we worked a little harder. Sometimes they even came out to the country to help, clearing the vacant plot behind our house with sweaty hands and a few jokes. It was nice to be with them again, and the operation went slightly unnoticed, considering John spent more time in our bedroom. He was too tired to come outside, but when he did, I shooed our friends off and told him I was just cleaning up a bit. He then sat on the porch and sighed. 

"I'd always wanted to start a garden," he said. 

"I know. I'm cleaning it up so we can make one."

"Right." 

There was a touch of sadness in John's voice as he'd said that. Nowadays, his hopeful smile was faltering. At first, he'd laugh at his need to turn in early, saying he'd turned into an old man. I told him that neither of us were old, but he just waved me off and grinned. Now he needed help with things he'd been so great at before. He would make himself soup, at which he'd be proud, but I'd have to clean the pot and put it back, high on the shelf. He took baths more than showers, which made him feel even more senile. I tried to tell him that forty-six was was still young, that he was still just as glorious and handsome as he was when we were scanning the streets, eager for a case, but he said it didn't have to do with how he looked. It was how he felt, and more and more often, he napped or read or wrote instead of taking me out on the town or playing with Blackie and Frodo.

I couldn't let it get to me, though. I had to complete the project. Even as John faded more and more into the walls of our home, Lestrade and the crew never missed a chance to remind me of the "good ol' days."

"And then there was the case with the flutist," Lestrade said as he scraped long lines into the hard dirt, spade in hand.

"Oh, I heard about that one," Molly said, organizing seeds by the color of their petals. "Didn't the flute end up being made of flesh?"

"No, that was a joke John had made. It was ivory. The killer used it to bash the victim's head in." My own hands were busy with the design of the garden. I was sketching a cluster of maroon roses which would contrast with the lighter pink ones beside them. After we'd cleared the lot, we had to lay stones and bring in the fountain. Then we could plant the roses. I hoped the bushes would grow fast with the constant attention I'd give, watering and fertilizing them. They'd grow tall and thick in colorful bunches and perfectly planned patterns. I'd build a white archway, maybe with vines weaving through its planks. It would be beautiful, but there was much work to be done, and as much as I hated to think it, we were running out of time.

"Wait, what was the joke?" Molly asked. Molly had continued working at Bart's, eventually settling down with a nice man who, thankfully, didn't look anything like me. It wasn't that Molly's affections were disregarded by me, but I wanted her to find her own John Watson, and we all knew I wasn't it. 

Sally peeked her head from around a bin full of weeds. "A flesh-flute? C'mon, Molly, I thought you'd get that one. You're the one with the two kids."

"Oh. OH! Right." She chuckled, the sun rays catching in the slight wrinkles by her eyes. Sally just scoffed and hid her brilliant smile. I looked upon her, grateful that we'd become friends. Even after all I'd teased her about, she still respected me. I didn't ask her about her love life though, as it was a touchy subject. Donovan and Anderson had stopped fooling around years ago, but the tension was still there. She was following her career more now, even as she'd paused it to help us out. She set the bin outside the gates and wiped her brow.

Lestrade dug his hands into the dirt and let the soil flow through his fingers like silk. "There, all soft."

"Didn't think you were much of a gardener, boss," Sally said.

"For John Watson I am."

We were silent when he'd said that. The weight of what was happening dawned on us always, but we tried to shake it away as he continued to prepare the lot. I dropped the design and moved to join them. "I really appreciate you all coming out to help," I said. The words were heavy in my mouth, but I knew I had to say them.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Lestrade said as he slicked dirt into his silver hair with a cool glide of his gloved hand.

"Can't say the same for your boyfriend." Sally put her hands on her hips, bringing the mood back up. "Where is he today, anyway?"

I pointed to Molly and nodded, issuing her to start planting the seeds in the patch of dirt Greg had softened. She crouched down beside Lestrade as he spoke, "He's working on a big project. He's contributing funds for this, what more do you want?"

"Having him here would be nice," Molly said, her slender fingers pushing the seeds deep into the soil. I dropped to my knees and joined her.

"My brother wouldn't want to get dirt on his suit," I said, "but I know his sentiment is intended."

Indeed, Mycroft had been informed about both the situation and the plan, but his work kept him from coming out and helping. He did send money for the roses, fountain, and pathway, which was greatly appreciated, since most of my own personal wealth went into treatments and medication. 

"It certainly is," Lestrade added. They were happy together, my brother and Lestrade, but I didn't think they'd take the marriage route like John and I had. It didn't matter, really, they loved each other just as much. 

The conversation died out after that. We worked for the rest of the afternoon, pushing seeds into the dirt along with plant food and strong fertilizer. When all of the spaces had been turned, filled, and watered, we wiped our hands and stepped back.

"It'll look beautiful, I know it," Molly said. She brushed a twig from her shirt before taking my hands. "Call us if you need anything else, Sherlock." She kissed my cheek and left through the back gate. Joined by Lestrade, they all gathered around the car. Sally's curly head disappeared into the driver's seat and was replaced by her waving hand. She drove them all back home, and I was left alone to finish the garden.

I loved them, I really did. Even Anderson came 'round after a while and became slightly bearable. He and the others would be my sanity after this was all over, I was sure of it.

Retreating back into the house, I closed the door and sank against its solid frame. "John," I said, praying for a response. "Are you awake?"

* * *

The roses took longer to grow than expected. It was almost a year before anything close to my vision had begun to form. Some grew slower, while the classic red roses bloomed quickly. I treated them properly, watering and feeding them as I would a child, but it was still a difficult task. The job was made even harder when mixed with caring for John. I loved him, very, very much, but assisting someone on John's level is tedious.

Throughout the year, John's illness fluctuated. Some days, he seemed much better, and he would even wander out into the kitchen to make himself some tea. Others, he'd just sleep the day away. We went to the hospital a few times, but the diagnoses was always the same. All we had to do was wait, even though it was the worst part.

I would read to him before bed and attempt to draw him when he had enough light in his eyes to sit up and smile. I worked every night on my closing letter to him, too, which said everything I couldn't - even with the rose garden reaching its peak.

When John rested, I spent time in the garden. A few of the blossoms were spotty, others were lanky, even more were hidden beneath green bushes. I had to prune them often, and most times they grew back patchy. Eventually though, with about a week to go 'til the anniversary of the garden, everything looked perfect. The blossoms were more prominent and vibrant against their bushes and the purples, reds, pinks, whites, and yellows began meshing and contrasting beautifully. Everything was ready - even John. 

I'd told him that I'd been working on something special, and as he's always been patient with me, he never questioned it. Now I stood in our bedroom, more often John's bedroom than mine, and spoke to him softly.

"John, I have a surprise for you. Do you think you can come outside?"

"Okay." His voice was meek but his smile was sincere. I helped him from the bed and into his slippers. I tied the robe around his waist and led him through the hall. It was hard not to look at pictures John had taken on cases or family portraits with the dogs as I led my weak husband down the hall. I tried my best to stay strong as we pushed through the kitchen slowly. I rolled my speech through my head, John's soft breath the only noise in the house. I'd prepared my words carefully, having practiced them for months, even though I knew that it wouldn't take much to get the point across.

I was still nervous, though.

John stepped down the steps and raised his eyes to the sound of buzzing. I'd let my bees pollinate the roses, which they were all extremely grateful for. They were happy in their hive, but now they had a beautiful rose garden to frolic in. The garden, which John now looked upon, had finally reached its full potential. It was like something out of a yard fancy magazine, and I was extremely proud. The rose bushes lined the pathway that lead to a stone clearing with one white bench in it. The fountain trickled off in the corner, surrounded by yellow and white buds. The archway led off our property, and verdant vines coiled through its diamond holes and wrapped around painted wood. John took the sight in, his clouded eyes almost restored to their natural, curious state. He turned from the garden back to me and squeezed my arm. I knew he loved it, but he couldn't show it like he used to. His silence hurt more than any accidental bee sting, and there was nothing I could do but kiss his forehead.

We walked through what I had made, his slippers gliding softly over the stones. The marbles and glass beads that patterned the stones glistened in the sun, rivaling the water droplets on the petals of their accompanying roses. 

Leading John to the bench, I began to recite my speech. "You always loved roses, so I created this. Molly, Donovan, Lestrade, and even Mycroft helped. Their love for you is embedded in every bud. We worked hard to make it for you, John." He sat down on the bench and took a shaky breath. He looked at me like a glowing angel, even though his face was pale and still. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, Sherlock," he whispered.

"Good." 

We took a moment to admire my work. I watched him, how his prominent nose turned up to smell the sweet floral scent, how his eyes slid closed even though I knew he loved what he saw. He squeezed my hand meekly. I let him bathe in the moment before I spoke once more, "John… You came into my life and saved me so many times - "

He cut me off, "Sherlock - "

"No, no, I'm going to say it. You told me to be strong when this all started, remember? So I'm going to be." My heart was racing and I couldn't catch my breath, but I let the rehearsed words tumble out of my lips anyway. "John, I was so lost before you came along, and I know you were, too. Somehow we found love through adventure, running through the streets and catching bad guys." He huffed a tender laugh. "We found it, and we took it with us through everything. We loved just as fiercely on our wedding day as we did when both of us hid it, and I love you just as fiercely now. But I can't necessarily show you like I did then, because as much as I can't believe it, you'll soon be taken from me. I wish it wasn't that way, and you know I'd do anything not to say goodbye, but I can't. We can't. So all I can do is make you something beautiful, show my love for you in every possible way, tell you with little time we have left that you are, and will always be, the one man I've loved to depths of hell and back. John, my best friend, my husband, my partner, I love you so much, and you're worth so much to me and I'm so scared of what it'll be like without you. Even as you've taught me to love everything from this stubborn garden to myself, who's just as stubborn…" I looked at our feet. "I'm not ready for you to leave me. I'm not. But I'll have to be, won't I? That's the logical thing to do."

I was breathless and crying and sappy and I knew it. John was crying, too, but he was calm and silent and careful, while I was riled and hurt. I hated speeches and I knew John was aware of how much I loved him, but I knew I didn't have much time, so silly games weren't an option.

He squeezed my hand again, "Sherlock…"

"And I know you love me, sometimes I can't figure out why, but you do. You love me and have loved me and will love me still, and all I can think is how bloody lucky I am to have had you for as long as we did. That's, that's really all I can say. I'm sorry, John."

"I do love you," he barely said it, but I felt it on his lips when he pressed his head in for a tender kiss. He rested his forehead on mine, and I tried not to think of how unfair it all was. I cried softly and quietly into him, whispering memories and confessions that didn't make sense until the sun set and John grew tired.

I walked him back through the garden and let the hum of my bees settle over the glorious garden. Careful and unspoken, we dimmed the house lights and settled in. We fell asleep without a thing to say that night, my arms wrapped around him as he slept.

* * *

I didn't know what to say at the funeral. Our friends and John's parents and sister were up and talking, although I knew it was just as hard for them as it was for me. Harry cried through her speech, a speech in which she recounted a playful boy-version of John, falling into the mud and tracking prints through their childhood house. Old Mr. Watson gave a heartbreaking word about how he'd wished John knew how proud of him he was. Mrs. Watson just sobbed for her son and leaned on her cane as she was lead back to her seat. The funeral director asked me to say something, but I told him I couldn't, so he spoke for me. He'd called me John's husband, John's soul mate, John's beloved, but somehow none of those terms fit the moment. I wasn't anything to John anymore, he was mine. He was my ghost and my memory. Every trace of him living and loving me was etched into everything I was, so there was really nothing to say about what I was to him. 

We lowered the coffin into the grave silently, save for a few sniffles and some words about his bravery in Afghanistan. John's military mates sent him off and placed his badges on the sleek black surface of John's encasing. I watched with dull eyes, even though I knew John always wanted his military status attached to him when he died. He'd wanted so much, most of which he didn't think would come so soon. Neither of us did.

When it was finally my turn to place something in the grave, after all of the guests threw handfuls of dirt or family heirlooms in, I stepped up on tremulous legs. I pulled a chemically-enhanced navy blue rose from my breast. It matched his eyes. I dropped it into the open earth with a sigh. "Goodnight, my sweet rose prince," I said.

 


End file.
